


Muffled Screaming

by Merkwerkee



Series: Being Bruno Hamilton [21]
Category: Masters of the Metaverse
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, Torture, Whumptober 2019, during his time in the Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22855465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merkwerkee/pseuds/Merkwerkee
Summary: Bruno finds himself in need of rescuing. None of his squadmates like what they see when they find him.
Series: Being Bruno Hamilton [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643020





	Muffled Screaming

Someone was screaming.

To be fair, a lot of people were screaming. The dingy concrete walls echoed sound like a bitch and there were at least four other occupied interrogation rooms that he’d seen on their route thus far; the cacophony was something they’d been using to their advantage because he’d never figured out how their larger teammate managed to move on cat’s feet, and apparently neither Tunstall nor Weber knew how Hamilton did it either. 

The number of occupied cells had struck him as odd; normally the places they went had one, maybe two concrete rooms of dubious use. This place had more than three corridors of the things and counting. Whatever “splinter” group this was had a lot of highly specialized interrogation specialists for a group formed “at random.”

No, he wasn’t bitter about these assholes, why do you ask?

The tenor of this scream, however, was much more nuanced than the rest - though it could be because it was further away, he personally couldn’t tell. The hoarse notes contained overtones of pure rage, the bold flavor cutting through what sounded like several walls like a tangy California red. And, of course, he’d recognize the voice anywhere.

After all, Sergeant Bruno “Hammer” Hamilton had a surprisingly good baritone voice when he’d a lot of drink in him.

Amos Graves paused, listening hard, and Tunstall stopped as well. Weber took another few steps to the next junction and checked around the corner. The echoes and the generally lifeless decor made it hard to figure out which direction he needed to be going, but he eventually pointed left at the junction Weber was checking out and they were all rewarded by the screaming getting closer.

And it was starting to sound less like a scream and more like a bellow. Like some kind of pissed-off buffalo getting ready to gore some poor fool. And the swearing! Amos sniggered and set aside a few choice phrases, and Tunstall’s face was an absolute picture; he wasn’t sure where his errant teammate was getting his stuff, though in the back of his mind he was more than ready to lay blame at the feet of Kreepy Krieger. Guy was a menace, honestly.

Still, the words ended in a hoarse cry of pain and Amos’ slight smirk turned into a deep frown that was mirrored on the faces of his comrades. Hamilton was good; whatever they were doing to him in that interrogation room had to be either particularly bad or going on for awhile. He quickened his pace at the thought and Weber fell back to let him take point. 

His concern was mostly for getting a teammate out of this damn place, but there was also a niggling little thought at the back of his mind that had serious concerns about the caliber of replacement they’d get if they had to replace Hamilton. At this point Amos was pretty sure Hamilton was basically the best in the game and replacing him would be like replacing a Firebird with a Pinto.

They were getting closer; the screams were more clear now, less muffled by walls, and the nasty hum of something electrical preceded every one of them.

Well, that was mildly alarming.

Amos was almost sprinting now, giving corners only the most cursory of checks and leaving knives embedded in the guards he encountered rather than take the time to yank them out. Knives were replaceable, partners were not. tunstall and Weber were hot on his heels, and while he could feel the kind of concerned gaze that spelled a dressing-down later from Tunstall for doing stupid shit, the man was at least willing to let it slide for now - which, really, said volumes about the kind of concern the guy was feeling.

He burst into the interrogation room and nearly slipped in the blood on the floor. Hamilton was tensed like a bowstring, tied to a chair while his spine arched in a surprisingly perfect U shape. There were electrodes on every major muscle group, all hooked up to an ominous machine Amos wasted no time putting two slugs into. There was a fizzling pop and a puff of smoke from the machine as all the dials blew out, and the two operators of the bastard thing turned around with shouts on their lips that died there as Amos pegged them too, each with his own neat headshot.

Holstering his gun before the bodies had even hit the floor, Amos was over beside Hammer in an instant as the larger man slumped in his restraints with Tunstall and Weber right there beside him. Yanking the mouth guard out - nice of them to make sure the guy didn’t bite his tongue off while they _tortured_ him to death, _Jesus_ \- he started pulling the electrodes off; Tunstall and Weber helped as best they could, Tunstall leaning his not inconsiderable weight on Hamilton to keep the twitching to a minimum while Weber did what he could to start getting the electrodes on the other side off. Hamilton himself was panting and jerking, whatever the hell they’d done to him obviously lingering; a Hammer coming apart at the seams was not something Amos like to see any day but he especially didn’t like to see it when they had to sprint their way out of a high-security facility.

“You gonna be able to walk?” Tunstall inquired with a forced evenness that Hamilton seemed too out of it to call him on. “Well, I’m sure as hell not st- _staying_ here, _comfy_ as it was,” Hamilton responded dryly, and Amos shrugged. “I dunno, I think with a new coat of paint, some carpets, a few nice art prints and doilies, the place could be pretty cozy. What d'you think?”

Hamilton glared at him, the lines in his face deeper than usual, and Amos held up his hands in innocence while Weber punched him lightly on the shoulder. “C’mon Tongs, you _know_ the only way to really decorate a space like this,” He pulled out a radio button with a clicker on one end and a fairly threateningly large button on the other. “Is to raze it down to the foundations and salt the Earth it rested upon. Care to do the honors?”

Hamilton slid a questioning glance at Tunstall, somehow taking in their surroundings along the way, and Amos grinned as he poked the prone man. “Incendiary charges on the far side of the building, with Boots’ squad on standby waiting for the fireworks show. We set them off and hurry out the back with all the other poor, frightened sods they’ve got penned up in here.”

Hamilton thought for a moment, then grabbed the trigger mechanism. “Sounds good to me.” He pressed the button.


End file.
